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ne news came out of the blue last Thursday — in the somber tone of my brother Gary’s voice as he told my answering machine that my father was in the air — being flown by helicopter to Duke University Medical Center for emergency surgery.
There was nothing I could do but wait; wait until Gary arrived with my mother at the hospital. Even they wouldn’t know until then whether Dad had survived the flight to Duke from the hospital in southern Virginia where the main blood vessel in his abdomen ruptured.
“I love you.”
Those three simple words, more filled with meaning and emotion than probably any other three words in our rich and expressive language. How many times I said them to myself as I waited for word from my family. Our family has always been close, so there was no doubt that Dad knew that his family was behind him, pulling for him.
The waiting, not knowing, was the hardest part. Even Duncan, my four-month-old puppy, seemed to sense that something was wrong. Although the cabin door sat wide open, inviting him for a romp in the bright spring sunshine, he stayed inside. He lay near the door, looking at me with sad brown eyes which seemed to say, “I know you’re upset, and I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better. But I’m here, and I love you.”
I’m glad he didn’t know what the situation was.
I thought a lot about what my Dad, “The Dean,” has meant to me. That nickname was given to him, affectionately, by his fellow sportswriters at the Baltimore Sun. Since I’ve followed him into newspapering, it’s also become an affectionate nickname I’ve given him, as well. Each time I call him that, we both smile.
I thought about what a model he has been for me: in both his personal and professional life.
He’s the reason I’m a joum^st, because of his dedication and the high standards he set for himself. He was tough, and fair, and never lost his sense of humor, no matter what the situation.
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